


Foresight

by slothesaurus



Series: The Batman & Son Drabble Collection [3]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Families of Choice, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothesaurus/pseuds/slothesaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are walls all around you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foresight

**Author's Note:**

> Last one I'm posting tonight since I'm getting tired just looking at all my fic documents. What a mess.
> 
> This little baby was an experiment I had with my writing style. Admittedly I always see this abstract and vaguely prancing sort of style if you can imagine it. Think of a pen trying to sound poetic but sounding pleasantly high on space brownies instead. Not exactly the highest peak of literary genius but it still makes you smile/laugh when you read whatever it wrote. With the way I wrote this I don't see much of a difference. Ah, well. C'est la vie.

He’s sitting across from you at the table, eyes brighter than the morning’s sunlight peeking through the windows and jet black hair tousled to the right like fluffed chicken feathers.

Drake is there too. He’s dressed in a suit and tie that is, admittedly, not hideous. A pistachio green Paisley tucked into a gray pinstriped undershirt and an ink colored blazer. Armani and Zara, respectively.

You call the heathen tacky and tasteless anyway.

He’s calling your attention back, and you turn your gaze on to him, but not before marveling in the scowl quick to grace Drake’s face. It’s become a habit of yours to relish any insecurities you can cause the golden son of Wayne.

But then _he’s_  there, butter and syrup tinted lips turned into a small frown. And it wouldn’t mean anything to you at all if not for the fact that it reaches his eyes.

They’re the kind of eyes you hear stories about from your servants and your mother back home. Full of starlight and moondust, able to reach the farthest depths of your heart if you look too long. They swirl and sparkle with every emotion and thought he’s feeling, baring them effortlessly to anyone who’d take a glance.

You find him amazing because of it. Emotions spread out in front of everyone like a proud, winning hand of cards. As if every passionate expression will be rewarded by simply showering everyone and everything with them.

It’s a trust in the world you were robbed from at birth.

And you find yourself jealous so  _often_. Jealous and envious.  _Needy_ , even.

Needy to even just  _touch_  that wall he’s demolished with affectionate smiles and genuine honesty. Perhaps touch it and phase through to the other side where there are people who will touch you back. Touch you  _willingly_  and not simply out of pragmatism and necessity.

People who will look at you and tell you that you  _aren’t_  just some experiment made in a petri dish or some homunculus grown for the convenience and benefit of others. People who will look at you and treat you like you’re real.

A real boy. A real Robin.

A real  _son_.

So you purse your lips in disapproval. Not because of the lecture he’s giving you or because of the snide—but delayed—comeback from Drake. You disapprove of yourself for considering such ridiculous notions. You need your walls. You can’t afford to pass the threshold like some newborn eager to greet his mother on the outside.

And yet.

Drake polishes off his breakfast and leaves the table swiftly with a farewell to him and Pennyworth dusting in the next room, then merely  _glares_  at you.

A tired sigh from across the table. You look at him again. He’s picking at his pancakes and complaining how he’s been left with no more strawberries. An apology from Pennyworth indicates that a trip to the grocery is soon to come.

You look down at your own plate of calories and carbohydrates to find the contents mostly untouched. There are strawberries everywhere.

The moment your fork pierces red flesh, ripe juices bleed down on to your plate. You catch his gaze by looking at him through your lashes.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you bring the plump fruit up in front of your face in a gesture of offering.

He’s staring at your fork in wonder. Completely captivated by the tiny red morsel.

You extend your hand and the fork towards him, pointing, suggesting the possibility of feeding him. “Would you like some of mine?” You offer with bemusement.

His reaction is instantaneous. A child-like spirit welling in his blue, blue eyes and a shit-eating grin steadily invading his face as he nods his head like a dog, opens his mouth wide while still maintaining that smile as you inch your fork closer and closer—

Your hand whips the utensil back and into your own mouth, and you chew emphatically at his shocked, bewildered face.

_A crack in the wall._

Your smirking at him smugly as you murder another strawberry and swipe the bloody pulp against your plate.

He pouts and childishly crosses his arms, telling you what a sadistic little brat you are. And it would mean something to you, if not for the fact that the sentiment doesn’t reach his eyes.

They’re the kind of eyes you hear stories about from your servants and your mother back home. Owned by warriors and heroes, dancing with delight and amusement. They’re the kind of eyes that are brave enough to look at you.

_Sunlight peeking through the other side._

Because he’s the kind of hero who’s brave enough to love you.

"This wouldn’t happen if you weren’t such a pig, Grayson." You jibe, laughing.

Laughing.

_Fists pounding against the concrete._

Your laughter is a trigger. One that sends him crawling across the countertop and clawing for your strawberries with a wild howl of laughter of his own.

_A pair of sky-filled eyes breaking through._

Brilliant white teeth flashing in your face as he ruffles your hair, bops your nose and fences against your fork with a spoon.

_He can’t see you yet._

"En Garde, Little D!"

_But he keeps looking anyway._


End file.
